He grins, and I am startled by how feral he looks, all gleaming white teeth and pale eyes in a blood-splattered face. Indeed, I do not believe he is quite human in that moment. “It slowed him down, didn’t it?”
“By mere chance,” I point out. It was the most foolish, jape-fisted bit of buffoonery I have ever seen, and I am impressed in spite of that.
A short while later, as I stare down at the bodies of the six men I have just killed, I cannot help but wonder: Do I love killing? Of a certainty, I love the way my body and weapons move as one; I revel in the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact. And of a certainty, I am good at it.
But so is Beast. He is perhaps even better at it than I am, and yet for all that, he feels as bright and golden as a lion who roars in the face of his enemies and stalks them in broad daylight.
Whereas I—I am a dark panther, slinking unseen among the shadows, silent and deadly.
But we are both great cats, are we not? And do not even bright things cast a shadow? “Were they waiting for the men at the miller’s?” I ask. “Or are they a separate party of scouts altogether?”
“A separate party, I think. See?” Beast points to a series of hoof prints in the muddy bank where the men had just crossed the stream. “They were on their way back.”
My heart sinks. “Which means they have all the western routes covered. We will have to head due east and approach Rennes from that direction.”
We risk riding into the arms of the French, but at least they will simply kill us and not try to take us back to d’Albret. If the truth be told, I’d rather take my chances with the French.
By the time we stop for the night, Beast is gray with exhaustion and fatigue and hardly able to do more than grunt. As we make camp, it is hard to know which is the greater threat: d’Albret and his be-damned scouts or the blood fever coursing through Beast’s veins. In the end, I decide we must risk a small fire for the poultices, but by the time they are ready, Beast is fast asleep. He does not so much as stir when I place them on his wounds. As I stare down at his still, ugly face, I find myself praying that I will not be left with nothing but his limp, dead body to bring before the duchess.
By some miracle or stubbornness of constitution, Beast is better in the morning. Even so, I insist we travel at an easy pace, well away from the roads. When we stop for a midday break, I almost decide to make camp for the night then and there so Beast can rest, for he is exhausted again, and fresh blood flows from the injury at his thigh. He waves my concerns aside. “It is a good thing, for it will wash the foul humors from the wound.” He insists we keep going, as the farther we get from our pursuers, the better.
Shortly afterward, we draw near the main road to Rennes. Apprehension fills me, for I am certain d’Albret will have it watched, but we must get across. Besides, even d’Albret does not have enough soldiers to man the entire road. Our hope is to find an unguarded section.
We lurk awhile, watching the travelers from our hiding spot in the trees. A farmer carrying hens by a pole across his shoulders goes by, followed by a tinker who clanks and clatters along. Neither of them tarry or linger or appear to be dawdling, so I doubt they are spies. A short while later, a sweat-stained courier races by on a lathered horse, and we can only wonder what news he carries, and to whom.
Since he is not followed—or accosted—we deem it safe to cross. We put our heels to our horses and hurry to the other side before anyone else comes along. Beast catches my eye and flashes me a grin, the first I have seen today, then leads us into the brush and spindly trees on the east side of the road, where we turn north.
I glance over to see how he is faring only to find him watching me. “What?” I ask, uneasy under the weight of that gaze—the man has a way of looking at me as if he can see beneath all the layers of my deception. It is most unsettling.
“One of the soldiers recognized you,” he says.
Merde! With all that was going on, how could he have heard that? “Of course he recognized me,” I scoff, as if he has hay for brains. “I have been in d’Albret’s household for some time. How else do you think I was in a position to rescue you?”
Is it just my imagination or does his face clear somewhat? He frowns as if trying to work out some puzzle. “How did the convent secure you a position in d’Albret’s entourage? By all accounts, he is more suspecting and distrustful than most.”
“The abbess has many political connections among the noble families of Brittany.” I use my most haughty voice in the hopes that it will deter further questions.
It does not look as if it will, for Beast opens his mouth once more, then—praise Mortain!—pauses and cocks his head to the side, an alert look on his face.
“Now what?” I ask.